19. Natalie
CHAPTER NINETEEN
NATALIE
First: Breathe! Passing out is not a good look on anyone.
Smile. Keep it light. Upbeat and light.
And brief! You’ve got investors to impress.
Natalie stumbled through a short conversation with Kate and her new beau, though she wouldn’t remember a single word of it later.
Kate chatted in her animated way, and Dash hung on every word.
Natalie wilted beside them, offering only an occasional nod while drinking in every impossible detail of him.
Crisp shirt. Herringbone vest. Dark tweed blazer.
Starched Wrangler jeans stacked perfectly over polished Lucchese boots.
Vintage blue knit tie that made his eyes pop, not that they needed help.
If he’d dressed to score points with her horse trainer father and every woman within a thousand-mile radius, then mission accomplished.
Dash Benning, the picture of Texas business casual, more gorgeous than she remembered … and now he belonged to someone else.
Kate. He belonged to Kate.
Natalie’s cell phone rang, the perfect excuse to escape the cruelest déjà vu of her life. She slipped back inside the restaurant, fully out of earshot of the party guests. Hart's name on her screen sent her blood pressure sky-high.
Remember, you're in a public place, running on high emotion and a mostly empty stomach.
Don't do anything you'll regret.
Call him back and find out what’s going on but stay calm.
She clicked his contact. He answered immediately.
"This is the part where I tell you I haven't been able to get you off my mind,” he said seductively. “And then you tell me you've been counting the hours until I called.”
Natalie’s free hand curled into a fist. Had the walls of Terrace Oak been composed of something other than brick she’d have punched one. She paused, mustering all the ladylike reserve she could.
"Are you not able to make it after all?" Natalie asked through clenched teeth.
"No, I’m coming. Five minutes out. Sorry I haven't touched base. It’s been a crazy weekend."
Yes, I'm sure rambunctious twins keep you on your toes, you married POS.
"I honestly didn't think you'd make it," she said.
"I'm not too late, am I? I really can't wait to see you."
"No, you're right on time." Her voice dipped into sarcastic southern sweetness. "In fact, the party is just getting started."
She hung up before he could respond. Shaking, nostrils flaring, she stomped into the ladies’ room. Braced against the sink, she took in her reflection. Wild eyes stared back, red-rimmed and sleep-deprived. In truth, she barely hung on.
She blew out a couple of breaths, like a prize fighter prepping to step back into the ring after an initial smackdown.
You can do this!
Stay focused on what’s important.
Pop’s birthday.
Investors.
Forget Dash.
Forget Hart Lockwood.
She’d come this far. And damn if she’d let a man—any man—turn another dream into a dumpster fire.
Natalie shoved the bathroom door. It smacked the wall, but she didn’t stop to check for damage.
She strode back to the courtyard, heels clicking aggressively against the tile floor.
She snatched an oversized martini off a passing server’s tray.
Downed in seconds, she wiped her mouth on her sleeve.
The Cowboy Treatment for courage … or impending disaster.
Possibly both.
Back outside, the party glowed with soft sounds from the jazz trio and warm chatter from the guests.
Dozens drifted toward the buffet. She slipped behind the storied 150-year-old grand oak tree—the showpiece that canopied the outdoor space—and took in every detail.
Her perfect artistic vision come to life, exactly as planned.
Then she saw Dash, laughing and talking with her father.
And Kate, her eyes bright with unmistakable happiness.
Her heart filled and drained in the same breath.
As she turned to grab another drink from the bar, someone covered her eyes from behind, pitching her into darkness.
"This is the part where you turn around,” Hart whispered in her ear, “and give me the kind of kiss that lets me know the best is yet to come."
Deep breath, Nat.
You need his gravitas.
Play nice … for now.
Natalie spun around, skirt flaring. Of course, Hart looked incredible. Dressed to the nines with nary a hair out of place, which only stoked the fire of disgust in her gut.
No, this is the part where I show Herculean restraint, lest I kick your married ass in front of all these nice people.
Natalie offered her hand, speaking with a cool, detached tone. “Glad you made it.”
Hart’s head cocked. “So, we’re going professional mode? Fine. I’m ready to work the room. Just follow my lead.”
Follow your lead?
I built this entire event from the ground up, you arrogant asshole.
Natalie pointed. “Let’s meet the man of the hour first. That’s him there, with the gray beard.”
“Sounds great. We’ll schmooze en route.”
They waded through the crowd, stopping every few feet to greet old friends and make new ones. Hart turned on his signature charm from the jump. A one-man PR firm, praising Natalie’s design prowess while humbly downplaying his own celebrity.
She hated to admit it: it was irritatingly effective, all the way to him whipping out her business cards, like a magician performing sleight-of-hand.
“Hart! Put that away.” She gave a teasing hiss, playing right along.
“And let these fine folks miss out their chance to get in early on your new business? Never,” he said with a wink.
Hart then launched into a loud elevator speech. How he wouldn’t dream of trusting his next and biggest book launch to anyone other than Natalie & Co.
Guests leaned in. A photographer circled, snapping multiple shots. A woman stood at the edge of the crowd, scribbling notes on a small pad. Natalie caught her eye–Hannah Hunt from Nashville Now. They exchanged knowing nods.
Act natural.
The publicity’s working.
Across the patio, Dash looked her way. Their eyes met for a split second … but then he turned back to Kate.
Seriously? He doesn’t recognize me?
It’s not like he was blacked-out drunk that night.
And my hair alone tends to leave a lasting impression.
A landowner with a cowboy hat the size of a satellite dish asked for a business card. Another guest followed. Natalie hustled to the display table. Half of her cards and business brochures—gone.
Yes! It’s working!
Keep Hart talking.
Don’t stop until this display table is empty.
Natalie pitched to a new cluster of guests. Again, she caught Dash’s gaze. This time he didn’t look away. His eyes, brimming with something that looked an awful lot like pride.
Pride for her?
Or Kate?
Flustered, she lost her train of thought. Hart swooped in and picked up the slack without missing a beat. She quickly recovered and continued the pitch.
A server approached with a drink.
“Special delivery from across the patio,” he said, handing Natalie a martini—one with two jalapeno slices on a tiny wooden sword.
Oh my God. He remembers. The jalapenos are a sign.
Natalie looked across the courtyard. Kate waved a frantic hand at her.
“You’re being paged. Must be time for introductions,” Hart said.
She guided Hart by the elbow toward her father, Kate, and—God help her—Dash.
Breathe.
You can do this.
Foster’s eyes lit up when Natalie and her guest joined their circle.
"Pop, Kate, this is Hart Lockwood."
Hart extended his hand to each. "So nice to meet you.”
"And this is Dash Benning," Kate added.
“Right, sorry. This is Kate’s, uh, Dash,” Natalie murmured.
Would she ever be able to say the word boyfriend aloud? And if they married? He’d be Kate’s husband. Her brother-in-law.
Her one-night-stand brother-in-law.
No. Effing. Way.
Worlds colliding, her disbelief flowed like lava as Dash and Hart shook hands. The group chatted for a few minutes. Natalie sipped her martini and stole glances at Dash.
Time to find out once and for all if he remembers me.
She held up her glass. “Not sure who sent this over for me but thank you. The jalapenos are a nice touch.”
Kate spoke up. “I thought you needed a little something to wet your whistle. I stole the jalapeno idea from Dash.”
“Guilty,” Dash said with a smirk that sent a full-body tingle through Natalie.
Not the smirk. Lord, not the smirk.
“Nat, honey, Kate’s been filling me in on everything you’ve done for this little shindig. Celebrating my 70th while soft-launching your new business? That’s a Foster Powell level chess move right there. I couldn’t be more proud of you for shooting your shot, sweetheart.”
Foster kissed Natalie’s hand, glowing with paternal pride. From the corner of her eye, Natalie spied the photographer, camera pointed in her direction. She leaned her head on her father’s shoulder and the shutter snapped.
And there’s the magazine cover shot.
“Thanks, Pop. I’m so relieved you approve.”
A member of the jazz trio handed Foster a wireless microphone.
He grinned. “Approve? I’m about to sing your praises to everyone.”
The drummer played a short roll on his kit as Foster called the party to attention.
Hart’s arms slid around Natalie’s waist from behind.
Her spine turned to steel and she tried to push him off.
He persisted, nuzzling her neck. She shoved against him, eyes scanning frantically for the photographer.
She needed his endorsement but couldn’t be photographed as his mistress.
Of course, she’d only made the discovery the night before, but still.
Nothing would derail Natalie & Co faster than being exposed as a homewrecker.
She looked toward Kate, but she and Dash were standing a few feet in front of her, holding on to Foster’s every word.
No one’s watching you and Hart. Just stay focused.
“This is the part where I describe everything I’m going to do to you later tonight,” Hart whispered.
Ignore him.
Count to ten.
Don’t make a scene.
Hart’s hand brushed her neck.
Then she felt her zipper lower.
One inch.
Two inches.
Natalie spun around, her cheeks flaming. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m scratching your back, remember …” he said innocently. “But now that I think about it, you wanted your front scratched.”
He cupped her breast.
Natalie shoved him. Hard.
Hart stumbled into a server carrying drinks. The server crashed into the beignet station. Hot grease from two deep cooking vessels sloshed onto flames, igniting an instant fireball. Another server panicked and threw a pitcher of water, sending the flames sky-high.
The beloved 150-year-old tree—the crown jewel of Terrace Oak—caught fire in seconds. Flames raced along a river of spilled grease. Tablecloths ignited. Guests screamed. Foster hollered for everyone to stay calm, but chaos had already claimed the patio.
Natalie froze, taking in the whole scene as though it were cut straight from The Matrix.
Her dream, going up in literal smoke in extreme slow motion and ample pyrotechnics.
The sprinklers erupted in the private dining area.
Water rained down from the chandeliers. Men shielded their cocktails.
Women fled under their designer handbags as they bolted toward the exit gate.
The fire’s searing heat was nothing compared to the intense embarrassment melting Natalie from within.
Tears would come, enough to extinguish every flame. Natalie had no choice but to succumb to the absurdity of it all. Someone grabbed her hand and yanked her toward the emergency gate. It wasn’t until they burst into the parking lot that she realized that someone was Dash.